Remember that old board game, Aggravation? I think we used to have that game. I don’t remember enjoying it.

You know what aggravates me? PayPal. I know PayPal is the safe, secure way to pay. Once upon a time–a very long time ago, I’m sure–I set up a PayPal account. I even remember the e-mail account and password I used. I can log in to my PayPal account, but I can’t use it because every time I try, it tells me my credit card is no good. It doesn’t matter which credit card I use; it hates all of them. (To be fair, I don’t have an unlimited number of credit cards, so I’ve only tried a couple.) Which is fine, you know–I use my credit card online all the time. It hasn’t been stolen yet, and when it finally is, I’ll probably say, “Well, it’s about time, I guess.” Between the grocery store club cards and the Facebook I’ve pretty much given up on keeping my personal information private. I’m at peace with the fact that someday my identity will be stolen. Maybe that’s why I have this blog, to warn potential identity thieves that being me isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But I digress. My point is that I’m okay with PayPal rejecting me; I don’t need PayPal. That part doesn’t aggravate me.

What aggravates me is when I pay with my credit card and PayPal pops up and says, “We see you already have a PayPal account. Would you like to use it?” No, melon-farmers, I would not like to use it. I already tried using it and you wouldn’t let me. Maybe you don’t remember–IT WAS TWO WHOLE SECONDS AGO. Privacy-pimping bastards.

That’s really all I had to say about that.

I just bought some clogging shoes online WITH MY CREDIT CARD. (Bring it, identity-nappers!) My performance on Saturday went reasonably well. Better than I had feared it would. I practiced very hard. It more or less paid off. So I figure I’ve earned myself some proper clogging shoes. Actually, I already felt like I deserved them. It’s just that after Saturday I decided that I’m tired of being the only one in the group without them. Mainly because my tap shoes are black and everyone else’s clogging shoes are white. They make black clogging shoes–they make red ones, too–but apparently no one uses black (or red) clogging shoes. Only white clogging shoes. All the used clogging shoes I see on the eBay are also white. So yeah, I’m tired of not matching. If I’m going to stand out in the crowd, I don’t want people saying, “Why is that lady wearing black shoes? Is it because she dances so poorly? Are they the dunce cap of the clogging world?” when the truth is that I’m just too cheap to buy real clogging shoes.

Except I’m not because I just bought myself clogging shoes. And risked my identity to do so.

Elvis’s birthday party went well. I don’t know why it was stressing me out so much. Parties hosted by third parties are inherently less stressful than parties one hosts at one’s own home. They’re spendier but worth every penny. You have a party, then you just WALK AWAY. It’s that simple. It’s a good feeling. My husband took charge of the party favour situation. I think he volunteered once it became plain that I wasn’t going to do a darn thing. And I really wasn’t. The guests all would have gone home favourless. Why am I insisting on spelling “favour” the British way? Sometimes I just do. Same reason I insist on saying “grey” instead of “gray.” Not consistently. Just sometimes. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. My husband. Party favours. He just handed out a bunch of candy. Like, a lot. But I had nothing to do with it.

I think it’s amazing that with all the autistic children I’ve invited to parties, I’ve never had a guest who was GF/CF. Maybe all the GF/CF kids just stay away because they don’t want to watch everyone else eat cake and ice cream. Last year we had invited a boy who I knew was GF/CF because he’d come to another classmate’s party and had to watch everyone else eat pizza and cake and I thought it was the saddest thing I’d ever seen. (He didn’t seem too happy about abstaining.) I was all prepared to make a gluten-free cake for Elvis’s party, but the GF/CF boy never RSVP’d, so I gave up the project and went with the chock full o’ gluten option, which was a lot less trouble. I wonder if the GF/CF boy’s mother finally said, “Screw it, we’re not doing this again.” Maybe next year I will explicitly state on the invitation, “WILL HAPPILY ACCOMMODATE ALL DIETS.” Except that would be a lie. I might not happily accommodate all diets, but I would still accommodate and act like I was happy to do it because that’s the neighborly thing to do.

Or maybe I should just stop trying to feed our guests at all. Our culture has become too food-centered. No wonder we’re all obese. Maybe next year I’ll say, “Instead of a party favour, do yourself a favour–thirty minutes on the treadmill! Go!”

I’m just kidding.

I’ve decided that I’m going to find Princess Zurg another sewing mentor. I just haven’t broken the news to her yet.

What else is stressing me out these days? The laundry. The laundry is out of control again. It’s stressing me out a little bit.

Saturday is PZ’s birthday and I haven’t bought her a present yet. Mister Bubby and Girlfriend have bought her presents, but they’re kind of…frivolous. So the pressure’s on to buy something that won’t make her say, “What the crap…?” She told me some things she wanted that I could only get on the internet, and now it’s too late to do the internet shopping. I didn’t really want to get her those things anyway. I don’t know what I want to get her. It’s impossible to buy my child’s love! Why do I continue to try? Why haven’t I taught her how to sew yet? I’m just a selfish, sad excuse for a human being!

Okay, I’m done with that. Moving on.

My MIL goes back to California next week. That’s stressing me out because I’ve gotten used to having her here. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Gertrude, our regular babysitter, for about a month. Gertrude is going to have to find a new position once my MIL is up here full-time. I feel obligated to find her something. I know I’m not, but I still feel it. So that’s stressful.

Oh, I forgot about all the other birthday-related stress. So PZ’s friend’s birthday is two days before hers, but she’s having her party on PZ’s birthday. So PZ is going to have her party the day before, we think, provided her other friend is able to attend that day. PZ’s birthday party always stresses me out because her two BFF’s are so…ADHD. They’re dear, sweet girls but they fray my nerves. The experience of having them around is somewhere between an obnoxious neighbor cranking up his bass and a colicky baby screaming non-stop for several hours. That’s stressing me out.

Also, Mister Bubby’s class was supposed to elect a mayor for some…school-related…thing…and he just lost the election and is sorely disappointed and hasn’t moved beyond the anger/denial stage. That’s stressing me out, too.

I just remembered I forgot to take my happy pills today. And now it’s time to unload the dishwasher.

This post wasn’t that creative.